


Picture Perfect

by devaway



Series: Out of the Fire, Into the Cold [1]
Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All art is meaningless, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Lily never makes it out of STEM, M/M, Poor Sebastian, Post TEW2, Seb is driven by revenge, Sebastian missing Lily, Stefano thinks everything is art, but also beautiful, cough cough Oscar Wilde, philosophical musings, this is quite depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 21:57:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12567092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devaway/pseuds/devaway
Summary: Nothing went according to plan. Absolutely nothing. Lily was gone, permanently, and Sebastian had nothing left but revenge; Mobius was still quite alive. The one thing Sebastian did have was an ally, even if that ally was mostly hated and unwelcome. Still, he was better than nothing, and Stefano stayed even though he could leave. But if he left, he never would have learned the meaning of roses.





	Picture Perfect

Roses meant failure. They hadn’t always, but now they had for quite some time.

Stefano could not say with certainty when it had started. If he had to guess, he would say a week after STEM, maybe more, maybe less. The first rose appeared when they were running, but it didn’t mean failure, not yet. In the typical sense of a rose, it didn’t mean passion or love either. It meant loss. Sebastian had bought it for a quarter from a stand on the street. The stem was too short, the leaves wilted. The outside edges of the petals had begun to dry and curl inward. It was an ugly thing, a mere shade of what it could have been. Stefano had been disgusted by it; he had been a little amused too. For a man like Sebastian, what was a rose but a sign of weakness? It had not looked right when held by the detective’s calloused hands.

That should have been it, a fleeting side note in their escape plot, their revenge plot. Something simple to laugh over, to scream over. But doubtless you know it was not that simple, otherwise there would be no story to tell.

The two men spent that night the same way they’d spent the others: holed up in a borderline dangerous motel (the kind that only accepted cash and waved away names), closer than they should have been thought neither of them mentioned that. Sebastian drank—it was more nervous habit than compulsion, he would say, unaware that both are two sides of the same coin. Stefano didn’t mind all that much. They had made sort of a ritual of the mundane. They’d made it comforting in a world where comfort was the last things on their minds. Upon entering whatever room they had that night, their meager belongings were left on the floor; Sebastian got the chair and Stefano got the bed. Sometimes they’d share, but not that night. Sebastian still had nightmares, even worse, now, than before. All Stefano saw come from them was self-loathing, a tear in the detective’s pride. But he knew the nightmares were not just tiresome—they plagued Sebastian though he would never admit it. On those nights when they did lie side by side (from necessity rather than comfort, though in the morning they always woke tangled together), Sebastian would tense and moan and sweat, fighting a beast inside his head. Stefano always woke—he always watched, perplexed because he did not want to admit his interest ran deeper than that. He knew it did, though. He knew it did.

Sebastian, however, found it more than strange how he and the mass murderer got on so nicely. It wasn’t that strange at all. Sebastian, if asked about his understanding of his partner’s whims and emotions, would cite involvement in STEM as the reason; there was no way his empathy for a killer was fostered of his own soul. Stefano let him believe it.

On those first nights, especially on the night of the first rose, Stefano learned much about Sebastian Castellanos. Once the man was in his chair, inebriated enough to be relaxed, he began to talk. He talked to no one in particular. He certainly didn’t talk to Stefano, though Stefano heard him, and in a way he became part of the conversation, if not from intent than from circumstance. At first, he pretended to be asleep; as time went on Stefano learned the detective didn’t care in the least if he heard him. On that night, however, Stefano lay on his side and listened to the slurred confessions of the man who once tried—and failed—to kill him.

“I had a perfect marriage. Fuckin’ perfect. I was happy… don’t even know anymore, can’t even imagine now, what it felt like, you know?” The line of thought trailed into incoherent babbling as Sebastian tried in vain to smooth the inevitable rot claiming the rose petals between his fingers. “I really did try… no one can say I didn’t try. I fucked it up, myself mainly, but I tried. At least I tried.”

He continued this way, his words gradually fading out until they no longer escaped his lips. His eyes closed and his grip fell slack. The rose tumbled to the grimy carpet and remained, still.

Perhaps it was the contrast of the colors or the way Sebastian had searched the rose like a map, but Stefano could not leave it to lie there. Alone. Useless and forgotten. Spent.

He moved against the bed, fighting the noise of the covers and the creak of the frame. His own lack of silence irked him. Within STEM, Stefano had been graceful, beautiful, free. Distance and time bowed at his command. He missed it, that beauty that translated to power. It was a connection most ignored or simply failed to see. He had always seen it: beauty equaled power, created it. And yet… not all powerful things were beautiful. The scar throbbed; he ignored that. Stefano took the dying rose as a case in point rather than his own appearance. The rose, wilted and nearing its end still remained potent, sleeping on the dull carpet. Yes,  _ there  _ was a scene, but the angle was all wrong.

Stefano got down on his knees and then flattened to his stomach. Yes, a scene—art. He’d always had an eye for it, even now when that saying was literal. It didn’t matter. Talent eclipsed circumstance. It always had, it always would, even if the difficulty of life translated to nigh impossibility

Stefano had no camera. He didn’t even have a pen and paper. The lack of supplies was suffocating sometimes, if he gave into it. For so long he had lived his lives through a camera lens. It was better than sight, crisper than memory. But now memory was all Stefano had; at least he still had it. Considering the past few weeks, it was a gift, a real one. He’d make due. He always had.

Stretched out on the floor, Stefano fashioned his fingers into a frame—crude, yes, but it produced an effective visual. His sight was outlined by his own pale skin, drawn to the strange conundrum of vibrant death next to a stained recliner. Still, there was something amiss, missing. There needed to be another drop of pigment to be perfect. Stefano’s gaze drifted upward. Sebastian’s coat screamed out, the inky darkness tempting, teasing. Perfect. 

Inspiration was a strange thing. The appeared at the strangest times, summoned by the strangest things. It was all for perfection that Stefano grabbed the rose and stood, all movements gentle and slow. It was for perfection that he gingerly rested Sebastian’s arms where they would look best. (The man did not stir, his breathing heavy and even.) Even in sleep his brows were scrunched together in anguish. His lips were parted just slightly. Where his skin should have been colored by life, sadness left him monochrome. The rose, when placed in his lap, was contrast and constructed truth—pictures spoke a thousand words and Stefano struggled to come up with any words to describe  _ this _ . What stories he could make. What words he could weave into this narrative of alcohol and chipped paint, all held together by a rose. By a rose.

It was almost romantic.

Stefano shifted at the thought, aware of how intently he studied the man before him, positioned by a whim. But Sebastian was the farthest from Stefano’s control anyone could be. He was a fighter to the core, the bottles beside him his shield. Sorrow and hatred directed his steps; they were his double edged sword, the ideals which allowed him to kill and walk away. To move on, ever farther. His god was revenge, and that god made the real world no different than STEM. Sebastian’s worship was conducted in tears and blood. His gospels were memories of times long ago, all held together by…

Stefano faltered, an audible gasp escaping his lips. Shame, small but gritty, coated his sudden understanding. A rose—how had he not seen it?

The sick feeling of having intruded on pain far greater than his followed Stefano as he crept back to the bed. It weighed heavy in the tips of his fingers as he reached out and switched off the light. It settled on his chest as he tried to slow his breath, to sleep. He finally did, but fitfully. In dreams Stefano wandered a battlefield of corpses where men bled in roses and all he had to record the scene with was his mind.

In the morning, Sebastian awoke first. His loose, loud movements drew Stefano from his apocalyptic dreams. It still took the artist a little to wake up. Once he did, he rubbed his eyes and witnessed Sebastian again holding the rose. This time, his gaze was far from soft. The detective scowled at the flower and dropped it into the small trash can. The action was so unexpected Stefano couldn’t help but comment.

“I thought you’d want to try and keep it alive.”

Sebastian didn’t turn but his scoff was dark, his voice deep from disuse.

“What’s the point?”

“You looked to be rather fond of it.” Stefano whispered, running his fingers over the rough sheets.

“I don’t even like roses.”

“Then why did you buy it?”

“Because the seller didn’t have any lilies.”

**Author's Note:**

> So this series I started will just be filled with drabbles loosely connected by this same depressing alternate universe. Well then, not like I have anything better to do with my time... not like classes are a thing...


End file.
